


Episode: Paper Hearts

by dksfwm



Series: Untitled Drabbles and One-Shots [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: Post-ep for “Paper Hearts”





	Episode: Paper Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> 53) Things you said in the dark

Just when she thinks she may finally be able to fall asleep, there’s a knock on her door. It’s just before midnight, which means it can only be one person. She inhales, closes her eyes, and counts to five, releasing a deep breath before tossing back the sheets. She throws on her robe, quickly making her way to the door as she hears another soft rasp against the wood. She doesn’t bother to look through the peephole or turn on the light; she opens the door casually, like she expected him to come. His head is bent, tucked into his chest, and a wave of concern washes over her.  
  
“When I left you a few hours ago, I told you to go home and get some sleep.” She tries to keep her tone warm and comforting, almost playful, in an attempt to mask her apprehension.  
  
“Didn’t even try. I didn’t wake you, did I?”  
  
“No, I couldn’t sleep either.” Their eyes meet, and she sees a flicker of fear in his gaze, most likely reflecting the distress she’s covering up. But he’s always been able to see right through her. Even in spite of the dark. “I’m worried about you.”

“Why?” He moves past her and plops himself onto her couch. He leans his head as far back as it can go, resting his feet on her coffee table.

“Mulder,” she starts, closing the front door. “This case was consuming. You reopened old wounds. You channeled your profiling skills again, and they, combined with your personal convictions, got the better of you. You’re emotionally wound up, but you must be exhausted.” _  
_

She considers turning on a light, sensing a long conversation ahead of her, but she loves the way the moonlight illuminates his lanky form on her couch. She sits a few cushions away, facing him, tucking her feet underneath her. He’s sprawled out, while she’s almost folded into herself in an attempt to remain stoic and to preserve her emotions. This happens sometimes; they’re sitting no more than two feet from each other, yet their refusal to speak creates a whole world of space separating them.  
  
From an outsider’s perspective, they look like polar opposites. In the physical manifestation, it’s her small stature and his elongated one. Her red hair, bright blue eyes, and alarmingly pale complexion juxtaposing his dark hair, eyes that change color depending on his mood or what he’s wearing, and the constant sun-kissed glow emanating from his skin. With their minds, it seems impossible that a person who relies on hard science would be able to efficiently conquer aspects of the believer’s insistent paranormal pursuits.  
  
They sit there on her couch for what feels like an eternity. Waiting for Mulder to divulge something personal, especially after everything he just went through, is like waiting for grass to grow. Though she supposes, in this instance, she’s getting a taste of her own medicine. She’s certainly not any better with revealing feelings. Maybe, truthfully, they’re not as different as they appear.  
  
She considers that if she doesn’t prompt him, he’ll never open up. She wages an inner battle, wanting him to feel comfortable enough to approach her on his own terms, he did come to her apartment in the middle of the night, after all, while simultaneously wanting to get this over with. Whatever he wants to discuss, she fears that once he gets going, he’s going to be impossible to stop. And so they sit there, in the dark of her living room, a silence that’s only half comfortable.  
  
“He got inside my head.” His voice almost startles her. Though the volume of his words is just above a whisper, it’s as if he’s shattered the surrounding stillness. “He manipulated my dreams. He knew my innermost desires and my fears, about what happened to my sister. And then I just, killed him. Shot him in cold blood, not even giving a second thought to it.”

“But how, Mulder?” It’s not exactly the words she wants to use, but right now, she wants to keep her expressions simple. And if she were being honest with herself, she isn’t quite sure she can formulate an explanation for Mulder and Roche’s connection. Every idea she constructs falls short of being plausible.

“You’re the scientist, Scully. Surely you’ve found an explanation for this.”

“And you’re the psychologist. Understanding the inner workings of somebody else’s mind is your area of expertise.”

“So you’re offering no theory as to how I knew where Addie Sparks was, after a dream, at that? How I saw the words ‘mad hat’ written in red light on the side of a car Roche didn’t even own anymore? How I kept reliving the night Samantha was taken, how I went through a scenario where I found her and held her, tangibly, only to have her taken from me again and find, in my reality, that Roche was gone the next morning?”

He’s positioned himself so he’s facing her now, feet off the table and chest heaving. He’s close to losing it, she can tell. Her eyes are wide, and she feels paralyzed by his words. _Did he really feel Samantha in his arms_?  
  
They grow quiet again, Scully not able to offer Mulder an answer. Definitely not one he’ll want to hear, nor one for which she can muster up a coherent explanation. She’s now wishing that he will drop this conversation all-together, just get up off her couch and leave. But this is Mulder, and he’s always seeking an answer. At the very least, she hopes he’s able to calm himself before their exchange proceeds.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” She nods slightly, although she thinks he would ask her regardless. Her swallow is as noticeable as the subject change, however. “If you don’t believe my sister was abducted by aliens, what do you think happened to her?”  
  
She hesitates answering him at all, only for a second, but she owes him at least this much, even if her honest answer doesn’t satisfy. “Mulder, I truly don’t know what happened to your sister. I wish the circumstances surrounding her disappearance made sense. I wish you hadn’t repressed your memories in the beginning, because I think that made them easier to exploit. I wish…” Her voice fades, wondering if her last two statements were about Samantha’s or her own abduction. It dawns on Scully that perhaps he’s so concerned about finding out whatever happened to her because she reminds him of what happened to Samantha.

They’re both silent again for a few minutes, and it’s Mulder’s utterance that emerges first. “You’re not her, you know.” Scully is conscious of heat rushing to her face, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

“I don’t think of you as the little sister I couldn’t save. Maybe at first, that’s what I thought. I mean, I couldn’t save you, when Duane Barry… but then you came back…” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “You’re not my sister, Scully.”

_Maybe Roche_ really _isn’t the only one who can get inside someone else’s head_. “What am I then, Mulder?” She doesn’t even realize she spoke the words aloud until she see’s his eyes widen and his eyebrows creep up on his forehead. She turns her face down in embarrassment, standing up and attempting to move away from him and the couch. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No.” His left hand captures her wrist, and he brings her back down to the couch, their knees now touching. He reaches his right hand to cup her face, but settles for lightly tracing his fingers from the bottom of her earlobe down her jawline before resting his hand on the couch, almost like he’s bracing himself. “You’re my partner, you’ve got my back. You’re steadfast and stubborn and… you’re probably the best friend I have. Sometimes I think you’re my only friend.”

She looks at him for a minute and _thinks this can’t be true. There must be someone else better friends with him. We’re not friends in the traditional sense, by any means, so does it even really count_?

Her arms go around his neck, because she simply can’t think of anything to say, and their heads rest on each other’s shoulders. He brings his arms to circle around her waist, tentative at first, but eventually pulling her closer than he ever thought he could be to her. He closes his eyes and chuckles into her hair, an attempt to cease the tears from falling. “Scully, this is the second time you’ve hugged me today. What’s gotten into you?”

She chuckles along with him. “Shut up, Mulder. Best friends don’t need a reason to hug each other.”  
  
He pulls back a little, just enough to see her face, but so his arms still encircle her. “You think of me as your best friend, too?”  
  
The corners of her lips turn up slightly. “I don’t let just anyone into my apartment at all hours of the night, you know.”  
  
They’ve shifted away from each other, sitting comfortably against the back of the couch, the silence now pleasant. Their eyes have fluttered shut, his palm rests upturned on the seat cushion, and she lays hers to cover it. The contact is feather-light, but instantly they both feel warm. Safe and secure. It’s enough of a comforting sensation after the emotional turbulence associated with the Roche case, reopening old wounds, and coming out the other side with thicker and additional scars.  
  
“You should get some sleep,” she whispers, clasping his fingers just the slightest bit tighter.  
  
“I think I will,” he responds, staying perfectly still, not making any indication that he will be removing himself from her couch.  
  
For now, she is thankful for the darkness, the complacency associated with this particular moment. But soon, much too soon, they’ll be sitting in this exact same manner, after her first round of chemotherapy to destroy a tumor she currently doesn’t even know she has; instead of her eyes closed in contemptment, they will be forced shut with extreme ferocity, as if blocking her sight is the only thing keeping her nausea at bay; her hand covering his in a death-like grip; her breathing fast and inconsistent instead of heavy, happily sedated and tranquil.  
  
And instead of asking him to stay, to try to get some sleep alongside her, she’ll be telling him to leave.


End file.
